


You Treat Them Like They Have A Heart Like Yours

by CosmicOcelot



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, The Book Thief Spoilers, help and support leaving a bad situation, not between len and Barry, responsible bars that have exit strategies for unsafe situations, standard societal bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 12:46:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19334800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicOcelot/pseuds/CosmicOcelot
Summary: There’s 1,440 minutes left on the clock when he first meets him.





	You Treat Them Like They Have A Heart Like Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, back on my BullSh*t. 
> 
> Apologies to everyone waiting for the finale to 'Learning a Heart' it's being a bit difficult to wrangle so I settled for feeding the ducks that are this fic instead. 
> 
> Random metaphors aside, take note of the warnings above and make sure not to read if they upset you. 
> 
> Also, Len uses the 'They' pronoun for Barry when they first meet because he doesn't know which ones he uses at first.

There’s 1,440 minutes left on the clock when he first meets him.

Len’s picking up some extra toothpaste and shampoo just in case their plan doesn’t go off without a hitch, something so far that he hasn’t had the pleasure of experiencing but still, it never hurts to be prepared.

The 24-hour drugstore is fairly empty, only a few other customers and tired sales clerks milling about, and the cashier looks like they’re about one soft lullaby from passing out entirely.

It takes him approximately 120 seconds to find what he’s looking for and make his way over to the counter, where the cashier is staring, eyebrow arched at a frazzled looking kid with brown hair and a wild, heavily caffeinated look to their eyes. The kid is desperately digging through their bag, looking for something, impeded slightly by the fact that they keep casting apologetic looks to those around them every half second.  
  
“I am so— _so_ —so sorry—I—I _swear_ I put it in here before I left my apartment—oh _god_ —I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

The babbling continues and he weighs his options, it’ll probably takes another 120 seconds at least for the kid to either find the wallet or confirm that they really don’t have it—which would more than double his time at the store.

And, if all goes well, he’ll soon be in possession of enough assets to buy this store a hundred times over.

“Here.” He pushes the mess aside and drops a twenty on the counter, adding his own stuff to their pile. “Does that cover it?”

The cashier rings up the stuff again, and nods, tiredly taking the bill and handing him the change. Len nods his thanks, pocketing his own stuff, before taking the bag from the stunned kid and shovelling their stuff into the bag, which turns out to be one bag of instant coffee mix and a bunch of on sale pepperoni sticks.

He raises an eyebrow at the purchases as he zips up the bag and hands it back to them. “Hell of a diet you got there kid, didn’t your mom ever tell you caffeine stunts your growth?”

They flinch slightly, clutching the bag tightly to their chest. “I—thank you—for that, but you didn’t have to—”

“Don’t sweat it, kid.” Len says, turning and leaving before he gets caught up in more of the kid’s platitudes.

Unfortunately, his good Samaritan act is rather dogged.

“Wait!” They run after him, and then in front of him when he doesn’t stop. “Can I, uh, get you a—coffee or something? To, uh, say thank you?”

Len scoffs. “No offence kid, but that,” he nods towards where the instant coffee is now safely tucked away in their backpack, “is not exactly my brand.”

“Barry.” The kid blurts out, blocking Len when he tries to take a step around them. “My name—that’s—” They take a deep breath to collect themselves, “I’m Barry, Barry A—”

“Fascinating,” Len drawls, “have a wonderful evening, Barry.”

“Just—” Barry darts in front of him yet again. “Hold on. When I said coffee I meant, I could buy you one—from Jitters?”

Len pauses, part exasperated, part curious. “And just how would you buy me a coffee from _Jitters_ when you couldn’t even buy _that_ coffee?”

“Oh, 'cause I—” Barry fumbles with his pockets for a moment before pulling out a crumpled piece of paper that has more wrinkles than legible text. “I have a coupon, for a free coffee?”

The nervous little questioning waver at the end of his explanation makes the corners of Len’s mouth twitch slightly. “You don’t sound too sure about that.”

“Well, it might have expired, but, well, I figured that it’s worth a try, right?” Barry offers him a sheepish smile that shows off their dimples. “And if it doesn’t work, well, then I’ll really owe you, won’t I?”

Len considers the offer, he has no more prep work to do for tonight and he can’t deny that this is, at the very least, _interesting_.

And it always pays to have someone owe you a favour.

“Well, if you insist,” he gestures towards Barry, “lead the way.”

It only takes them a few minutes to walk to the coffee shop, Len placing his order and then Barry offering up the coupon that, miracle of miracles, actually still works. The two of them sit down at a table for two among the rest of the night owls; the slight blue tinge of computer screens and the faint humming of motherboards being worked to capacity enveloping them.

“So,” Len says, taking a sip of his iced coffee, “what are you doing out so late? Don't you have a curfew or something?”  

Barry rolls their eyes. “I’m 22.”

“Well, your diet certainly makes a lot more sense.” Len notes. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

Barry smirks at him. “Well, maybe you should ask a more interesting question.”

“Cute.”

“Thanks.” Barry huffs out a laugh, though Len notices that their cheeks have flushed slightly, and that the lights of the coffee shop highlights their freckles “But in all seriousness, I was just grabbing supplies for my term paper, it’s due Friday.”

Len takes another sip of his coffee. “Writing about anything interesting?”

“Wh—yes! Have you heard about the particle accelerator?”

The term brings to mind images of the construction project that he’s faintly aware everyone’s been abuzz about lately, but he shakes his head. “Can’t say that I have.”

It’s not his smartest decision ever, as Barry then launches into a solo monologue about the particle accelerator and the guy who built it, a Dr. Harrison Wells, kid seems particularly hung up on the man, as well as all the wondrous things that his _accelerator_ is going to do for society. But it gives him time to finish his coffee without having to put much into the conversation, and it’s hardly a hardship to watch Barry talk; their whole body moves with them as though barely able to contain the vibrations of their voice, and their eyes light up with an unguarded brightness that Len hasn’t seen up close in a long time.

He’s draining the last of his coffee when Barry finally wraps up their rant. “—and then everything we know about science will be doubled—tripled—quadrupled! It’s going to be amazing.”

Barry smiles softly, so in awe at the prospect that Len finds himself caught there for a moment, and when the moment is broken by Barry shaking their head and staring up at him sheepishly he finds it… _disquieting_ that he doesn’t know the exact number of seconds that were in that moment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t drag you here to yell science at you—”

“No, you brought me here for coffee.” Len tilts the empty cup to show them.

Barry flushes a fascinating shade and Len waves away the errant impulse to discover how far it goes—he needs to be on his A-game for the heist tomorrow and as he glances at his watch he discovers with that same disquieting sensation as before that this kid has a way of making time run away.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to talk for so long—”

“Don’t be.” Len interrupts, standing up and placing his mug back on the counter. “It was a good coffee.”

He turns back to the kid, hovering a few steps away from him and shuffling nervously.

“Thank you again, for what you did for me.”

Len rolls his eyes. “Don’t sweat it, kid. Just try and remember your wallet next time.”

“Oh—I—I will, I promise.” And he fights the smile that threatens to curl the corners of his lips at the seriousness in Barry’s eyes.

Len nods before making his way over to the door—

“Wait!”

There are fingers, tugging ever so slightly on his parka, and Len turns and arches an eyebrow at Barry. “Yes?”

Barry lets go immediately, flushing deeper and running a hand through their hair nervously. “I—I just—I never got your name.”

For good reason, but in another disquieting turn he finds himself opening his mouth all the same. “It’s Len.”

“Len, oh.” That grin is back, wide and needlessly happy about such an inane thing, and he fights down the faint warmth it stirs up. “Okay, then—thank you, Len.”

Len shakes his head and pulls open the door, tossing one last comment over his shoulder, mind caught up in the flush that has covered Barry for more than half the time that he’s known them.

“See you, Scarlet.”

* * *

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” 

Barry looks up at him, exasperation written all over his face. “Believe me, this isn’t exactly great for me either.”

The two of them are standing in front of a check out again; though thankfully Barry’s purchases involve something closer to human food this time, and by that Len means that he can spot an apple or two among the mess of chips and cookies.

“I see your diet hasn’t gotten any better.”

“Funny, you should be a comedian.” Barry rolls his eyes before continuing to rifle through his pockets.

Len nods. “I could, but I’m far too attached to my day job.”

“What, being annoying?” Barry mutters distractedly.

Len holds out a brown worn wallet in from of Barry’s face, dragging him out of his search and making his eyes go wide.

“I prefer the term knight in shining armour.”

“How—” He grabs it from Len, flicking through it to make sure all of his cards are still there. “Where did you find it?”

Len leans forward past him, giving the impatient clerk a few bills so the line of people grumbling behind the two of them won’t decide to express their exasperation in a more overt way. “On the floor in one of the isles.”

“Oh—what, when did I—hey wait just a second I can—”

“Relax, Scarlet, the money’s from your wallet.”  The clerk bags Barry’s items and hands it to Len who starts to walk towards the door, Barry scrambling into step behind him.

“I can carry—”

“Haven’t seen you around much lately,” Len keeps a firm grip on the bag, and his tone nonchalant, “to be honest, thought you’d found another store to lose your wallet at.”

Barry shakes his head, a slight smile curling his lips. “You keeping tabs on me, Len?”

“Wouldn’t be a very good knight in shining armour if I didn’t.” Len replies easily.

Barry chuckles. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Silence falls over them for a moment before Len arches an eyebrow at him. “So?”

“Oh! Right, I uh, sorry, I’ve been staying at my partner’s place the last couple of weeks; in fact, I just went to the store because my sister invited me over for a party and I, uh, forgot to bring the snacks.”

The term makes something twist in his gut. “Partner, huh?”

“Yeah, Chris, he’s—he’s a really great guy.” Barry goes quiet, a slight smile playing across his lips. “But he, uh, he’s kinda picky about the kind of groceries we get so, you know—”

“No.” Len cuts him off, thinking of the time he and Lisa were so hungry he stole the leftovers from a restaurant garbage bin. “I don’t.”

Silence falls over them again, this time a more constrictive one and he can feel something he refuses to call guilt pulling at him.

“Alright,” He says, because they’ve only got a block or two to go and he doesn’t want to end their meeting on this note. “eating habits aside, what’s this Chris whoever like?”

“Chris Beaufort—”

“Beaufort?” Len snorts. “No wonder he’s picky about his groceries, he probably doesn’t want anything to tarnish the silver spoon in his mouth.”

Barry frowns. “He’s not like that, Len, he’s really down to earth; funny, sweet, charming—”

“Makes you hide your sweet chili and sour cream chips addiction?” Len tacks on and Barry gives him a playful elbow. “I’m just calling it like I see it, Scarlet.”

“You haven’t even met him.”

“So?”

“ _So,_ you haven’t _seen_ anything.” Barry takes the bag as they arrive at the door to his sister’s apartment complex. “Look, I know you think you have to look after me like I’m some kind of kid or something but I’m not. I know what I’m doing, Len, trust me.”

Len narrows his eyes. “I know you’re not a kid, Scarlet, but you have a rather unfortunate surplus of kindness.”

Barry smirks at him. “This, coming from the guy who bought coffee and pepperoni sticks for an absentminded stranger?”

“I think you’ll find very little kindness in that decision,” Len takes a step closer to Barry, cocking his head to the side as he looks down slightly on the younger man. “I only stood to benefit by intervening. Not only did I decrease the amount of time I would have spent in line, I got my own coffee out of it too.”

Barry hums thoughtfully. “Maybe, but a bit of a risk to assume that I’d offer you compensation afterwards—what if I was pulling some sort of grocery store hustle?”

The thought had occurred to him, briefly, when they kept running into each other after that first night—that maybe Barry was some sort of undercover cop, trying to get close enough so that Len would spill all his deep dark secrets to him—that maybe he was some low level con artist looking to build up a reputation by blindsiding him—but then—

“Barry, you couldn’t convince me that the sky was blue; let alone hustle me.”

Barry laughs. “Wow, _wow_. Your words are hurtful, Len, and they will be remembered.”

“Wonderful, I do try so hard to be memorable.”

Barry waves goodbye with another chuckle and a shake of his head before ducking into the building, and Len starts his walk home.

He’s halfway there when his phone buzzes with a text from a new number.

_You do know it_ _’_ _s illegal to deface dollar bills, right?  
\- Barry _

_First time someone_ _’_ _s accused me of_ _‘_ _defacing_ _’_ _something when I give them my number._

_Consider me shocked._

He chuckles, sliding his phone back into his pocket, only for it to buzz again a couple of minutes later.

_Why did you give me your number?_

He… _pauses_ , for a moment, before typing out a reply and clicking his phone off; shoving it into his pocket for the night.

_For the next time you feel like falling off the map_

He waits until the next morning to turn it back on again, and immediately receives an answering text.

_promise I_ _’_ _ll use it, thank you, Len_

And it is far too early for him to feel this warm.

* * *

  
_“_ _What_ _’_ _s with all this waiting around? I say we kill the lights now and grab it_ _—”_ __  
  
_“_ _From the laser protected, face melting case?_ _”_

_“_ _The case won_ _’_ _t be a problem if we just shoot it enough_ _—”_

“Fascinating as this debate is,” Len murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, hiding the movement behind a champagne glass, “it’s entirely academic. We are going to proceed according to the plan and anyone who doesn’t will have to deal with me, clear?”

Grunts of agreement echo down his earpiece and he resolves to pull together a more reliable crew for the next operation.

Around him, the crème of Central City society mills around, with enough jewelry to buy everyone in the apartment complex he grew up in food for a year. He’s already snatched a few wallets out of habit more than anything else, waiting for the moment when their gracious hosts will remove his real prize from the aforementioned ‘face melting case’ to display it to their guests.

Really, it’s almost their fault, taunting him with their brazen display of wealth and ‘unbeatable’ security—no matter how many times they’re proven wrong, the rich keep building Titanics for icebergs like him to sink.

A waiter draws close to him and he hands them his glass, scanning the room and wondering absently if he could slip some of the lighter necklaces off of their respective necks.

“I was actually hoping for a ‘hello’, but I guess this works too.”

Len turns to see a familiar pair of green eyes smiling at him. “Barry.”

“Len.” A waiter swoops in and plucks the empty glass from Barry’s hand before handing him another. Barry looks for a moment like he might try and force the waiter to take it back before his shoulders slump slightly and he lets the waiter disappear into the crowd. 

Len watches the waiter go before nodding at the glass in Barry’s hand. “Not a fan?”

“What? No, I—” Barry cuts himself off with a quick shake of his head, making the first forced smile Len’s ever seen on him. “It’s good— _very_ good—I just—”

“All these silver spoons making your teeth itch?” Len asks, taking a glass off a passing waiter and clinking theirs together.

The tension goes out of Barry’s frame slightly and he laughs. “You know I think you’re the only other normal person I’ve seen all night—I just escaped someone who was actually trying to get me to debate whether pearl or mother of pearl was better.”

“And?” Len smirks at him. “Which side did you take?”

Barry takes a rather large gulp of his champagne. “I said I preferred rubies and that someone was calling me over.”

“Rubies?” Len takes a slow sip of his own drink. “Not diamonds?”

Barry shakes his head. “It’s hard to appreciate something that’s value has been artificially manipulated by strategic monopolies.”

“I’d avoid mentioning that to the woman who has several huge chunks of those artificially manipulated valuables around her neck.” Len nods his champagne glass over to the woman in question and Barry follows his line of sight, shaking his head in equal parts awe and exasperation.

“Good call.”

“I’ve yet to have a bad one.” Barry shoots him a look that Len counters with another smirk. “So, what’s somebody like you doing in a place like this, Scarlet?”

“Being spectacularly bad arm candy.”  

Barry jumps at the intrusion and a cold kind of calm seeps through Len, hand drifting ever so slightly and naturally so that it’s resting a second away from his concealed gun.

A man approaches them, black hair gelled back from his signature grey eyes, and before Len can blink his arm is around Barry’s waist, fitting him against his side seamlessly.

“Where on earth did you go, darling? I’ve been looking for you ages.” Before Barry can respond, the man presses their lips together, locking Barry into an embrace that he hesitates for a moment before giving in to. 

Eventually he pulls away from Barry, turning to flash Len a smile with too much teeth.

“Who’s your friend?”

“Chris, this is my friend, Len.” Barry gestures towards Len and himself. “Len, this is my partner—”

“Christopher Beaufort.” Chris interrupts, holding out a hand for Len to shake, which he ignores. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise.”

Chris holds out the hand a moment more before finally drawing it back. “Well, hate to cut in on your friend time, darling, but I’m afraid we have to leave early—turns out Greg forgot to let me know about some paperwork that needs to be filed before tomorrow.”

“Oh, no, it’s no problem.” Barry hurries to convince him, turning back to Len. “I’ll talk to you later, Len?”

Len nods, offering Barry a small smile. “Sure thing, Scarlet.”

“Wonderful; Barry.” Chris’ voice has taken on a sharper impatient edge and Barry quickly falls into step behind him as they make their way out of the reception hall.

Len watches them go, caught up by the sudden fierce desire to follow them—

“Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting, the legendary Diamond of Dimanche!”  

But then it’s show time. 

* * *

Two months later and the word diamond is no longer on every front page in Central City, Len is sitting pretty with another fortune tucked away, and Barry hasn’t contacted him.

For the first month he tells himself that Barry just forgot, that he’ll run into him eventually, and then the sixth week comes around and he begins casing out the grocery store in the neighborhood of Barry’s… _partner_ —'Entire Nourishment'.

It takes another two weeks of trying to look like he’s seriously debating the value of organic strawberries versus farm organic strawberries, and like he completely understands the differences between them to be anything other than arbitrary bullshit, before he spots him.

He’s in the aisle across from him, staring between two tins of tea like one of them holds the secret to the universe and the other is the devil incarnate. As he draws closer to this battle of wills, he’s able to make out the bags under Barry’s eyes coupled with the weariness of his shoulders; and the way he’s almost hunched into himself.

“Can’t decide?”

His voice makes Barry jump, and he drops both of the tins, managing to fumble one back into his grasp while Len reaches forwards and catches the other.

“Oh my god—I’m so sorry—I just—”

Barry turns to him, a hundred apologies already babbling forth from his mouth like a noisy brook, before dying away with a sigh equal parts exasperation and fondness.

“You just came very close to causing death by myocardial infarction.”

Len arches an eyebrow. “Really? What a shame, I’ll have to tick that box off my bucket list another time.”

“You should really give more thought to that comedian gig.” Barry reaches forwards to take the tin of tea from Len, but he pulls it back and holds it out of reach.

“Married to my work. Monogamously.” Len examines the label of the tea and raises his eyebrow slightly. “Organic chai leaves with pearl dust? And here I thought you were more of a strawberry and green tea guy, Scarlet.”

Barry rolls his eyes. “Well we haven’t _run out_ of strawberry and green tea.”

“We?” Len pretends to look confused for a moment. “Ah, that’s right. You and the silver spoon.”  
  
“I wish,” Barry makes another move for the tea, managing to grab it out of Len’s grasp this time, “that you wouldn’t call him that.” 

“Why?” Len’s lips curl into a smirk. “Oh right…I guess expensive household items would be a sensitive subject. Tell me, have the mighty Beauforts had to sell all their spoons to make up for their lost diamond?”

Barry puts both tins into his shopping cart. “ _Stolen_ diamond, and no they’ve still got enough cutlery to go around.”

He pauses for a moment, turning to look at Len, and his face softens into something that stirs that same traitorous warm feeling in Len’s chest. “Are you…okay, by the way? I mean, you were pretty close to the viewing stage right before the thieves—”

“Were you worried about me?”  Len asks, forcing the corners of his lips to curl upwards teasingly and trying to ignore the part of him that desperately wants the answer.

Barry shoots him a look. “Yes! Of course, I was, Len.”

“It’s not like you have to send up smoke signals to see if I’m okay, Scarlet,” Len arches an eyebrow at him, frustration over the last few weeks bleeding into his voice a little, “you have my phone number.”

“I—” Barry clenches his jaw and ducks his head, closing his eyes briefly, “I’m sorry, I know I said I was going to talk to you after the party but when we were leaving I—”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “I—I fell down a flight of stairs when the lights cut out and my phone broke and I—”

He hesitates, body tightening for a moment.

“I…I hurt myself pretty bad in the fall.” 

“You fell down a flight of stairs.” Len repeats.

_Oh, you know kids, teach; always rough and tumbling where they shouldn_ _’_ _t. Lenny_ _’_ _ll be fine in a few days._

He grins at Len, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know me, two left feet.”

_Girl_ _’_ _s got two left feet, Mrs. Macthun, but she_ _’_ _ll be fine. Lisa here just needs a band aid._

“How bad?”

“Sorry?”

Len takes a step closer to him. “How bad?”

Barry looks at him, his eyes searching his, and slowly, carefully, he unfolds his arms and places them on Len’s arms. “Hey, I’m okay, alright? I didn’t mean to freak you out, I—”

“Barry.” Len cuts him off, and his voice is rough and low, and raises the spectre of something he thought had been long dead. “How bad?”

Barry watches him for a moment more, before switching his gaze to the white laminated floor. “A broken leg, arm, fractured collar bone and some bruises.”

Len forces himself to take a deep breath, quietly in through his nose, closing his eyes briefly. “Barry—”

“Look, I—” Barry pulls his hands back from Len’s arms and crosses them over his chest defensively. “I know. I was really lucky I fell the way I did; and I promise I’ll be more careful in the future and I’m sorry if me going dark for a while scared you but—”

“I’m not—” Len resists the urge to grind his teeth, “— _upset_ with _you_ —”

“Great.” Barry pushes a piece of paper at Len, gesturing towards it. “Write your number there and I’ll add it to my new phone.”

Len holds the paper in his hands, not making any movement towards it. “Barry—”

“If you don’t have anything to do after that, I could use some help shopping.” Barry shoots him a teasing smile. “I promise I didn’t forget my wallet this time.”

Len watches him a moment more before reaching into his pocket for a pen, scribbling his number onto what looks like the scrap of a receipt before handing it back. “Count yourself lucky, Scarlet, I rarely give out my number to same person twice.”

Barry rolls his eyes, but most of the remaining tension leaves his body. “Whatever will I do with this wonderful gift you’ve given me?”

“Use it.” Len replies, taking the cart and pushing it along catching the surprise that quickly gives way to something softer on Barry’s face out of the corner of his eyes. “And don’t give it out to telemarketers.”

The laugh that bursts out of Barry makes the past six weeks seem like nothing, and Len spends the next half hour pushing around a shopping cart as Barry rattles off items like they’re playing a game of bingo.

And while Barry crosses items off his list, Len starts making one of his own. 

* * *

It’s only him at the next job, in a well-fitted tux that Lisa had talked him into getting a while back, once again watching 0.1% of society discuss diamonds and debauchery the way that only those that have never had true despair grace them with its dark shadow can. 

There’s extra security this time, and it had taken quite a few more tricks than he would like to admit in order to slip in with no one any wiser; he makes sure to keep the darkly clad men in his peripheral vision at all times as he scans the room for his target.

“Hey.”

He turns to face the owner of the voice, dressed in a suit that clings to his frame in a way that makes Len’s mouth go dry.

“Barry.”

Barry smiles, but it’s stretched kind of thin and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I gotta say, I’m kinda surprised to see you here again, or at least—someplace like—” He gestures to the decadence surrounding them, “Didn’t figure this was your kind of scene.”

“That so.” Len raises an eyebrow at him. “Guess that makes two of us. Find yourself dragged into anymore conversations debating the merits of one precious element over the other?”

Barry huffs out a laugh. “Not yet, but it’s only been an hour.”

His shoulders relax a little bit, and he takes a sip of his drink and comes to stand closer to Len. “So, what _are_ you doing here? Being a professional trouble maker?”

“Something like that.” Len nods at Barry. “How about you?”

Barry tenses slightly, hesitating, and Len takes the moment to give him a once over, looking for any minuscule detail that will give even more cold clarity to his conviction.

“Oh, you know, being professional ‘army candy’ and all that.” Barry nods behind Len slightly, and he turns slightly to see the eldest Beaufort son laughing with a group of people that exude so much grime that they must be either politicians or bankers. “Chris is trying to convince more people to help support his charity work.”

“Is he.” Len replies, but it’s not a question, and Barry doesn’t miss it, shooting him a stern yet nervous look. And that’s new, that flicker of open fear he can see in Barry’s eyes that makes him so very, very cold.

And speaking of new—

He brings a hand up to Barry’s cheek, trying to ignore the way that Barry’s whole body seems to stiffen, as though preparing itself for some kind of terrible blow instead of the quick swipe of his thumb against his cheekbone.

“You had something on your face.” Len tells him, turning his thumb over to examine the powder on his fingers. “ _Have_ is probably the better term, I didn’t realize you'd started wearing makeup, Barry.”

He can practically see the excuse rising though Barry, quick and ready made to fly off his tongue.

“I don’t—not usually, that is. But I—” Barry is speaking fast, desperate, words stumbling and tripping over each other in order to drown out the thing that he can’t say. “I was late for class and I didn’t look—and I couldn’t really show up here with it—and I—I didn’t want to stay home and not support Chris—but I didn’t want people to think—”

“The truth?” Len says.

Barry looks at him, stricken, like with two words Len has managed to strip away all the pretence, like an audience member tearing apart an actor’s character.  

“You don’t understand.”

Len struggles to swallow down phantom screams. “Don’t I?”

“Yes—no—I mean—” Barry takes a short, shuddering breath, his body beginning to shake like the buildings on the last day of Rome. “You don’t have the context—”

“Barry.” Len’s hand reaches forward taking Barry’s glass from his hand and placing it on the table behind them. “There’s no context that could ever excuse this.”  
  
Barry shakes his head, eyes terribly bright as tears gather in them. “I—”  
  
“You know it’s true, Scarlet.” Len murmurs softly, reaching forward to curl his fingers gently around Barry’s. “Please, let me take you to your sister’s.”

For a long, terrible moment, Barry says nothing, just stares at Len like a lone vessel caught in an unforgiving tempest, as though Len is a lighthouse that he hasn’t quite convinced himself isn’t a desperate hallucination.

And then his hand squeezes Len’s back, and he gives a tiny, almost imperceptible, nod.

Len nods back, and begins to maneuver them towards the door, making sure to never let go of Barry’s hand. “Okay, let’s—”

“Pardon me.”

Christopher Beaufort’s smile is like a razor’s edge and Len can’t help but imagine how many times it has cut Barry, a wave equal parts nausea and loathing washing over him.

“I believe that’s _my_ partner you’re trying to abscond with, _Len_.” He holds out his hand towards Barry and it takes an inordinate amount of self-restraint for Len not to shoot it off. “Darling, there are some people I’d love to introduce you too.”

Len shifts slightly, so that Barry is not immediately in reach of this… _thing._ “I’m afraid Barry and I are in the middle of a rather pressing matter.”

“Oh?” Chris arches an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“Leaving.”

In an instance all his carefully constricted regality and nonchalance disintegrates, and Chris turns an ugly shade of red, his mouth curling into a snarl. That’s what they all are underneath, Len thinks, just putrid monsters desperately trying to fool you into thinking they’re Gods.

“You—”

“Careful, _Chris_.” Len warns, his voice barely above a whisper yet still managing to ring loud in the slight lull in the room around them as every eye pretends to not be looking their way. “We wouldn’t want to make a scene, now would we?”

Chris’ eyes flicker to the carefully not-looking guests and draws himself back together and under his façade again, though not without considerable effort.

“Thank you ever so much for taking care of him,” Chris takes a couple of steps closer, but when Len refuses to move out of the way he stops and sends Barry a smile instead. “Feel better soon, darling, I’ll be along to tuck you in as soon as I can.”

Barry gives a trembling nod, his whole body looking like it might fall apart if they stay there a moment longer, so Len turns and lets go of Barry’s hand to place his own in the small of the other man’s back; gently but firmly propelling them out of the room and away from the monster masquerading as a man.

* * *

Len’s met Barry’s sister a handful of times, usually at some point during their coincidental clandestine meetings—a barista at the coffee shop they go to, a jogger in the park they’re sitting in, a stranger passing them on the street—once though, was on purpose.

He’s sitting in Jitters, nursing another one of those iced coffees that he’s coming to the realization he might have developed an unhealthy addiction to—that and the prospect of running into Barry—when Iris takes the seat across from him.

He blinks, then raises an eyebrow at her. “Is this some new customer outreach I don’t know about?”

“I would seriously quit on the spot if they asked me to do that.” Iris deadpans, putting her elbows on the table to lean forward. “No, this is me asking what your intentions are with Barry.”

Len places his drink back down on the table carefully. “What makes you think I have any?”

“Common sense.” Iris replies, shrugging, “Everybody has intentions towards the other people in their lives, even if they’re just benign desires for cooperation or wishes for friendship and acceptance.”

Len feels the corners of his lips twitch upward into a smirk; she’s smart this one.

He leans back into his chair, regarding Iris carefully. “And which category do you think I fall into?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting here asking you for the answer.” Iris meets his gaze evenly, “I know who you are, what it is you really do for a living.”

He picks up his coffee again, taking another sip. “Is that so.”

“Cop’s kid, remember?”

He does remember, remembers the ice that had crystallized in his veins, freezing him to the spot, as the remark had fallen so clumsily off Barry’s lips—grinning sheepishly at him as he ran a hand through his hair that looked a little red in the sunlight.

He also remembers the moment he decided it didn’t matter, when Barry had found him propped against a wall after an unfortunate downturn in some _discussions_ and had brought him back to his old, rickety apartment—stumbling up the stairs with him only to lay him gingerly on a moth eaten couch, cleaning and bandaging his wounds while looking at him with eyes that saw right through any pretence Len tried to throw up.

It wasn’t that moment that decided it, but the morning after, when Len had awoken on the couch to see Barry desperately trying to salvage what used to be eggs and turning to look at Len, all dishevelled with his hair sticking every which way, before rolling his eyes.

_“_ _Guess I make a better nurse than a cook._ _”_

And the gravity of what happened hit him, as did the realization that he would willingly eat that mess of blackened scraps if it meant Barry would smile in the way that made his eyes crinkle, and come sit next to him to talk about the benefits of Saturday morning cartoons. (Though Barry didn’t let him eat the spoils of his little war, instead letting the toaster make toast for them.)

“I just need to know,” Iris says, breaking him out of his thoughts, “that this isn’t all some sort of scam—that you’re not just using Barry.”

He takes another sip of the coffee. “Have you talked to Barry about this?”

Iris lets out a sigh that tells him all he needs to know. “I tried, but he refuses to think anything bad about you.”

“Oh, I would beg to differ.” Len shoots her a smirk to hide the way that his chest convulses traitorously as warmth seeps through it. “He has a lot to say about my shortcomings.”

“But nothing serious.” Iris says softly, holding Len’s gaze with her own. “He has no doubts about you whereas I—” She pauses, taking a deep breath, “—I would like to be sure.”

“Would you believe what I told you?” Len wonders. “I am, as you are no doubt aware, a thief, and a liar, and I hurt people.”

“Tell me the truth and I will.” Iris laces her fingers together on top of the table, leaning forward even more. “Tell me a lie and I will know.”

He considers her for a moment, weighing the benefits and costs of baring even just a little bit of his soul with that of an easier silver-tongued lie. 

When he finally speaks, he surprises even himself.

“I want to spend time with him.”

Iris blinks, but her face softens in a way that tells him she knows exactly how much there is left unsaid in-between those seven words, and it sets his teeth on edge. “That’s all?”

“You’re the one with the built-in lie-detector,” Len drains the last of his coffee, setting it down and standing up, “you tell me.”

* * *

As they get to her apartment it crosses his mind that she might not have received his text, but when the door opens it’s clear that she’s been waiting for them. 

“Barry,” She whispers, pulling him into an embrace so tight Len is worried it might cut off Barry’s air flow.

He steps past the two of them into the apartment, making his way to the bathroom and pulling the things he needs from the cabinets before returning to find them seated on the couch, Iris’ hands clutching Barry’s just as tightly.

“When did it start?” She asks, as Len goes to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

Barry shakes his head, his mouth working wordlessly for a moment before he clears his throat and manages to get something past his lips that makes Iris squeeze his hands.

“Oh Barr…”

He returns with the glass, setting his supplies on the coffee table in front of the couch, before offering it to Barry, who nods gratefully and accepts it—though he can’t quite meet Len’s eyes.

“Would you prefer Iris did this? Or me?”

Barry looks at the coffee table and all the supplies, not answering right away and Len waits patiently for him to speak.  
  
“You, please.” 

Iris nods, giving his hands a final squeeze before standing up and making her way to the kitchen. “I’ll make some tea.”

She gives Len a look as she passes, gratitude that she can’t express openly right now spilling off her in waves, and he gives a slight nod back before taking her seat on the couch.

“I’m going to take the make-up off, if that’s alright with you.”

Barry nods, and Len sets to work, gingerly wiping the cotton pad soaked with makeup remover over Barry’s face.

He works in silence for a few moments before Barry speaks.

“Don't do it.”

Len pauses in his ministrations, flicking his eyes from where the yellow-green skin is beginning to poke through to Barry’s. “It’ll heal better if it’s not covered up.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Barry says.

Len looks away, returning his focus to removing the rest of the makeup. “What did you mean?”

“You know.”

“Despite my many virtues, Scarlet, I’m not psychic.”

“Len.” Barry catches his wrist before he can return to Barry’s face with a washcloth to wipe away the lingering traces of make-up and its remover. “Hurting him is only going to hurt you and—”

He breaks off, struggling for control only for his eyes to betray him as perfidious tears abandon his eyes. “And that would hurt me.” 

Len struggles for control himself, barely managing to get his voice to remain even. “He doesn’t deserve your protection.”

“Don’t you get it? It’s not _him_ I’m trying to protect.” Barry hisses back, a manic look coming over him. “I won’t let you do this to yourself—not for _me_ —not for anybody—”

“Last time I checked you don’t _‘_ _let_ _’_ me do anything.” Len returns evenly, slipping out of Barry’s grip as easily as he would handcuffs. “I’ll do what I like, Scarlet, just like always.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment neither willing to back down, before Len sighs. “Look, we can talk about this after we get you fixed up.”

He motions with the washcloth and for a second it almost looks as though Barry won’t let him do it, but then he gives a terse nod and places his hands on the couch.

Len returns to his work, wiping off Barry’s face before setting the washcloth down. "Are there any other injuries I should know about?”

“Not really.” Barry shakes his head. “It’s been a couple days since—cause of the charity gala, he didn’t want any to—to leave anything that couldn’t be easily covered up.”

Len nods, it makes a horrific twisted sense, the same way it had all those years ago whenever there was a social worker scheduled to visit.

“Len.” Something must show on his face because it’s now Barry reaching forward and carefully taking his hand. “I know you’re—upset—but you can’t—”

“I think we’ve established by now that I can.” Len cuts him off, but he doesn’t shake off the hand, meeting his gaze. “But it’s your play, Scarlet; tell me what you want to do, and I’ll follow.”

Barry watches him for a moment, relief releasing his shoulders, before turning to look at Iris, standing in the doorway to the kitchen with a cup of tea in one hand and her cellphone in the other.

They share a conversation without words and Iris taps a number into her phone before pressing it to her ear.

“Hi, Dad, it’s me, can you come over?” Iris heads over to the couch, setting her drink down on the coffee table before taking a seat on the other side of Barry. “No, I know you’re on duty right now—it’s an on-duty kind of thing.” She shuffles closer to him so that their shoulders are brushing, bring a hand up to rub his back.

“Barry needs to make a statement.”

* * *

He hides out in Iris’s spare room while the police take Barry’s statement, and then the couch while the investigation and trial progress. It’s easier to keep an eye on both of them from there—in case the Beauforts turn out to be the kind of rich people that like to make their problems disappear before they can enter the courtroom.

Barry is quiet, withdrawn for the most part, offering only wan smiles and half-hearted jokes as Iris busies herself with taking care of him, Len watching them both fall apart in their own little ways.

He keeps the cold rage at bay through books, reading to himself and then aloud to Barry curled up on the end of the couch, wrapped in a blanket by Iris and falling in and out of sleep. Sometimes Iris sits at the kitchen table and drinks coffee while staring out the window when he’s reading—other times she has to work and it’s just him and Barry.

He would be more worried about her, but he knows for a fact that her father has a police escort dogging her every step, has heard her complain about it will an exasperated roll of her eyes and marked the desperately inconspicuous conspicuous figures in the unmarked car across the street from the apartment window. Which leaves him free to aim what worry he has at Barry.

Who, speaking of, begins to come round again, groaning and blinking blearing at the warm golden rays of setting sun. “ugh…when did I…?” 

“Around three hundred pages ago.” Len replies, already into page twenty of his new book.

Barry blinks. “Oh.”

He readjusts himself, snuggling back into the couch. “Did they, uh, get together in the end? Liesel and Rudy? When they were all grown up?”

“Yes.” Len says, not once considering telling the truth.

Barry hums, a slight smile curling his lips. “That’s good.”

Silence falls over them and Len returns to his book.

“Do you think we’ll win? The case, I mean—”

“I know what you mean.” Len says, looking at the words on the page without reading them.

Barry nods, licking his lips slightly, and Len is handing him his glass of water before he even realizes it, Barry accepting it with a soft murmur of thanks. “The lawyer says they’ve had a lot of people come forward after seeing it in the news, she thinks we’ll have more than enough witnesses to back it all up.”

 _‘_ _Witnesses, but not evidence, not to them_.’ Len thinks, but doesn’t say, giving a soft hum of acknowledgement instead.

Barry twists the now empty glass around in his hands. “She says…she says I’ve got to be prepared…for what they might try and say about me because of my—”

He breaks off, clearing his throat slightly, and obviously trying to fight back the spectre of tears. “Because of my Dad. And what they might say about him.”

“Not surprising.” Len says, turning another page that he hasn’t read. “People like them often drag other people through the mud to make themselves look cleaner.”

 “What if—” Barry’s voice breaks, and he looks at Len like he’s a second away from coming apart at the seams. “What if I can’t do this, Len?”

Len puts down his book, moving forward and arranging the two of them so that Barry’s face is lying against his chest, his ear right over his steady heartbeat. “You can.”

Barry gives in to the silent sobs then, hands clutching Len’s shirt as though it’s the only thing keeping him afloat.

Gradually his breathing evens out, his grip on Len’s shirt going lax, and Len feels brave enough to press his lips to his forehead—as though through that touch alone he can convey just how amazingly brave he thinks Barry is without getting caught up on his own words.

* * *

It goes as well as he thought it was going to. 

Which is to say it’s absolutely horrific.

The Beaufort’s lawyer and client charm the court in a matter of seconds, in an easy carefree way that speaks of practice and it makes Len’s stomach clench.

They laud the eldest son of Central City’s most distinguished family as a tireless charity worker, the kind of the person that would give the shirt off his back to the first person that asked.

 _‘_ _Just not his taxes to the government._ _’_ Len thinks, refusing to entertain the charade and instead keeping his eyes on how it’s affecting Barry.

The tone changes when it comes to many, many, witness the prosecution calls that give testimonies ranging from worrying behaviour to outright abuse—their hands all shake slightly when they talk, but most of them have their heads held high, with the same kind of determination in their eyes—the kind every survivor has.

The defence paints them all as harlots, hussies, no-good gold diggers trying to feast off the good name and fortune of this poor unfortunate man—arguing it’s a case of she said, he said. Never mind the fact that it’s more along the lines of she said, she said, he said he said, she said, he said, he said, she said, he said, versus one lone he said.

When it comes to Barry they go one step further, depicting him as a delusional individual with wild fantasies, citing his denial of his father’s obvious guilt, the way he sticks to a story about the man in yellow in the lightning, how he seeks out crazy stories to try and prove they’re real. Clearly, they say, he has an active enough imagination to come up with something like this. And when asked about it, Chris sighs as though he feels pity for Barry, saying that if he’d seen his father kill his mother then he could understand Barry’s preference for fantasy over reality.

Barry keeps together throughout it all, catching Len’s eyes through the worst parts to steady himself. But then the jury hands down their sentence—the sentence that Len has always known was coming but still somehow manages to disappoint him, clenching his jaw from his seat at the back of the courtroom.

_Not guilty._

And Barry disappears.

* * *

Joe and Iris look through his familiar haunts, and the off-duty cops from Joe’s division join in the search, and Len goes to the only one he knows. 

The bartender nods towards the back of the room when he walks in, and he sees him curled up in a booth, nursing an empty glass.

“S’ners n’ s’nts’.” Barry slurs at him as he approaches, plucking the glass from his fingers.

“What did you say?” Len asks, bringing the glass to his nose. Whiskey, the bad stuff, but it’s not like there was any good stuff around here.

“Sinners and Saints.” Barry repeats, his head lolling to the side listlessly. “Which one are you?”

“Never one for good deeds.” Len says, setting the glass down and sliding into the booth next to Barry. “I’d say the former.”

Barry snorts. “You’re so—so—” He waves his hand, “—full of it, you know?”

“Why did you come here, Barry?” Len asks.

Barry’s fingers twitch as though reaching for another glass. “Cops don’t. Figured Joe ‘n Iris wouldn’t find me here.”

He raises his hand to motion for another glass and Len catches it instead, giving the bartender a firm shake of his head.

“Didn’t really count on you doing it instead.” Barry tells him with a frown, tugging his hand out of Len’s grip.

“Might’ve escaped your notice, Scarlet, but I’m not a cop.” Never mind that Len was the one that had shown him this place.

Len hooks his arm around Barry’s waist and begins to pull him out from the booth. “Come on, we’re getting you out of here.”

“No—no—I can’t—” Barry tries to shake him off. “I can’t go back there, not right now—I can’t—”

He lowers his voice and it sounds so wretched and wrecked that it sends another fresh wave of anger pulsing through Len’s veins.

“I can’t stand the way they're going to look at me...like I..." Barry trails off, his eyes begging Len to understand. “Like they would…not right now.”

Len watches him for a moment, before nodding, because he does understand.

All too well.

“Okay,” he says, “Okay, Scarlet, not right now. We’ll go to my place.”

“Your place?” Barry frowns at him, shaking his head. “No, no that’s okay, Len, you don’t have to—I’ll just—” He sways a bit in his seat, and he looks pale beneath the flush on his cheeks, “I’ll be fine.”

“Barry.” Len tightens his grip around his waist. “This is not a good place to be drunk in.”

And Barry meets his eyes, and something seems to give way within him, and after a moment he lets himself lean into Len’s grip.  

“Okay.” It’s whispered into Len’s neck, defeated and with the sour tang of whiskey chasing it. “Your place then—you, then.”

* * *

He manages to get Barry to his nearest safe-house without that much difficulty, though the walk takes fifteen minutes instead of the usual five.

When they finally get there, he puts him, a bucket, a jug of water, and some pills in the spare bedroom with a view of the harbour; the townhouse has three bedrooms, and Lisa’s stuff is still cluttering the other one.

He’s about to leave when the hand reaches out and catches his wrist.

“Stay.”

Barry’s eyes are burning into his back, and Len tries not to fuck up _breathing_ for the first time in his life. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He nods, taking off his jacket and shoes, slipping under the blanket to join him.

Barry moves closer, arms and legs tangling until they’re both comfortable, and Len listens as his breaths slowly even out—realizing when the light slips through the cracks in the blinds the next morning and dances over Barry’s sleeping face that he can’t remember what time it was that they fell asleep.

And, no longer disquietingly, he finds that he doesn’t care.

* * *

He watches the girl giggle into her hand at the words the man whispers into her ear, sending him a knowing look before motioning to bar and saying something about settling up. The man lets go of her hand and says something about meeting her outside, heading to the washroom with a wink. 

She comes to stand where he’s lounging on a bar stool, tucking a strand of frizzy red hair behind her ears, lopsided grin on her face. “I’d like to close my tab, please.”

“Bad idea.” Len tells her, as the bartender hands over the machine for her to use.

She turns to him, frowning. “What?”

“Going home with him.” Len takes another pull of his whiskey.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “And I suppose it would be a good idea to go home with you instead?”

“No.” Len shoots her a smirk. “I’ve got someone waiting for me already.”

He doesn’t, not tonight, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Right.” She drawls, taking her receipt from the bartender. “Thanks for the advice.”

“You hear about that court case a while back?” Len asks, ignoring her sarcasm. “The one about the rich kid who had a habit of abusing his partners?”

She gives him a weird look. “Yeah, why do you ask—”

The realization hits her then, and her eyes go wide, looking from Len to the washroom and back.

“Oh god.” She brings a hand to her mouth. “I thought he looked familiar I just—”

She flags the bartender down again, her hand trembling slightly. “Hi, can I get a Pauline, please?”

The bartender nods, motioning at a waitress, who comes over and leads the woman away towards a room in the back; she pauses to mouth a thank-you at Len over her shoulder.

He finishes his drink as the man leaves the washroom and leaves the bar, placing the empty glass on the barstool and waiting a few moments more before heading out to join him.

He’s glancing around the crowd of people milling around outside waiting for their cabs to arrive, looking more and more irritated by the minute. Eventually he throws his hands up in the air and stalks off down the sidewalk, muttering ferociously under his breath.

 _“_ _Stupid bitch_ _—_ _knew I should_ _’_ _ve gone for the blonde one_ _—_ ”

Len follows him, unseen, waiting for his moment.

Predictably, he takes his normal shortcut back from this bar, through an alley that comes out right next to his apartment—and Len has him.

“Hey, Chris.”

The man turns around to face him, and Len offers him smirk. “How’ve you been?”

“Who are you?” Chris asks, clearly more affronted about being stopped by a plebeian in the street than scared about a stranger alone with him in an alley. “Oh wait, right, I know you. Len, Barry’s…friend.”

His lips curve into a cruel smirk. “How is Barry? Would you tell him I miss him?”

“No.”

Len pulls the gun from beneath his coat and all Chris’ bravado evaporates.

“Hold on now—let’s not be hasty—” Chris holds up his hands. “What is it you want? Money? I can make you a very, very, rich man, like nothing you could have ever dreamed—or—or it is power you’re after? In that case I can introduce you to some people that can help you get everything you could ever want—”

“That’s what it always come down to with people like you, isn’t it.” Len remarks, taking a step closer and watching in satisfaction as Chris stumbles backwards in return. “Nothing that money and power can’t solve for you, and normally I wouldn't disagree. But,” he clicks the safety off, “not today.”

Chris shakes his head, very real, very prominent fear in his eyes, and Len feels a sense of vindication for all the people that have ever looked at Chris the way that he’s looking at Len right now—for all the times that it’s been Barry with that fear in his eyes. 

“Please, you don’t want to do this—”

“No, I do.”

He squeezes the trigger.

* * *

He gets out of the shower back at the safehouse, the little evidence that there had been left having washed away down the drain, walking into the living room to find Barry sitting on the couch reading a book. 

“Scarlet.” He greets, tugging on the plain back t-shirt the rest of the way. “I didn’t realize we had plans tonight—”

“You lied.”

He pauses halfway to the couch. “I—”

“About Liesel and Rudy.” Barry shows him the cover of the book he’s reading. “They don’t get together when they’re grown up.” He sets the book down on the coffee table.

“One of them doesn’t even get to grow up.”

Len doesn’t say anything, waiting for whatever it is Barry is building up to say.

“I got a call tonight.” Barry says, standing and making his way over to Len. “There was a shooting—a murder—near _his_ place.”

“That so.” He doesn’t say _‘_ _whose place_ _’_ because he can feel the thin ice they’re standing on beginning to weaken and he wants to avoid the inevitable plunge through into the frigid waters while he can.

“I can’t work it, of course, neither can Joe; bias and everything.” Barry continues, shrugging slightly. “They’re sending away for a CSI and a couple detectives from Starling.”

Len doesn’t say anything, and Barry finally meets his eyes.

“You said—” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath, “You told me that you were going to follow my plan.”

“I did.” Len returns evenly. “And then I made my own.”

Barry laughs, hysteria woven through it, “Oh and that makes all the difference.”

“Barry—”  
  
“Don’t—” Barry takes a step back from him, out of reach. “Don’t try and justify yourself to me—don’t tell me why you did it, I—”

He shakes his head, by now they know each other’s scars with as much intimacy as they know their own. “I know why you did it.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that now I—I have his blood on me and I—” Barry presses a hand to his mouth, as though trying to hold back a scream, and then covers his eyes, “I never wanted anything of him with me ever again.”

Len feels numb, as though watching everything from a distance. “He got what he deserved.”

“You can’t—” Barry looks at him, righteous anger flaring to life in his eyes, “You don’t get to decide that—nobody does!”

“Please, Barry, if that were true we wouldn’t have laws.” Len bites out. “Or guns.”

Barry actually flinches back like Len had physically—and it makes him sick to his stomach.

“I don’t know what you expected from me, Barry.” Len forces himself to sound nonchalant. “You know what I am.”

“No don’t you dare do that—” Barry crosses back over to him. “Don’t try and—push me away to make it easier on the both of us—I’m not going to—”

He breaks off, looking at the linoleum beneath their feet.

“I’m not going.”

It’s three words, and someone they carry enough strength to tear him apart.

“I can’t take this back.” Len says, not sure if he’s telling himself or Barry.

“No, you can’t.”

Len swallows, avoiding Barry’s gaze. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Look at me.”

Len turns to meet his gaze and Barry’s lips surge forward against his own.

He gives in slowly, placing his hands cautiously on Barry’s hips and tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

And then Barry breaks it, pulling back, trembling. “You can’t— _ever_ do something like this again, do you understand? Because if you do then I’ll—”

Len recaptures his lips in a rush of motion, his hands clutching the two of them together so close it’s almost dizzying, breathing the words against him as they pause to come up for air.

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note -- it is incredibly hard to leave an abusive situation and be sure to give anyone you know going through this support while also keeping yourself safe first and foremost.


End file.
